Sunday, September 16, 2018

The Philosophy of Extremism III on Google Books

Here is the preview of The Philosophy of Extremism III by me and David C. McLean on Google Books. It's at this link

Appearances by Daddy & his little girl, Daddy's huge willy, the shiny red Silverado, the little nickel hole, and how to happily resolve a lot of poopy problems, and more.

It is a child-rearing classic that also contains essays about nihilism and teratology as they figure in my writing.

Monday, September 10, 2018

Philosophy of Extremism III at Amazon

The Philosophy of Extremism III, by myself and David C. McLean costs $11.95 on Amazon at this link.

Filthy pornography, such as "When Daddy Fucks Me Good"and other such classics, along with essays by David C. McLean about my novel, Fragments, which is also for sale at this link, are in the book.

Wednesday, September 5, 2018

Mrs. Ed

Mrs. Ed

Neighbors, non-neighbors, neighbors of neighbors, neighborless non-neighbors, people who ain't my neighbor, people not near a neighbor of mine, neighbors far from my neighborhood, don't ya' think "nay" and "boar" relate to animals more than to where one lives? "Nay," says a horse. That's a whinny, you know. But the boar and the horse are neighbors, in stalls, adjoining one another, not far from the goats. These goats though, they're not real goats. Nah, they ain't the type of goat birthed from other goats. These are cardboard goats, goats painted to perfection on the cardboard, their heads with horns like the devil. Nah, I ain't believin' in any horn-headed evil goats painted on brown board. They ain't no neighbors of mine. "Nay," says a horse. The horse knows too. The horse says she ain't seen no goat neighbors. "They just Mr. Talking Eds," she says, "not like me. I ain't no Mr. Ed. I ain't even talkin'. You's puttin' words into my mouth when I, uh, wanted carrots." But instead of carrot she says "garrote." "You've got to mean 'carrots,'" I say. "Nay," she responds, "'garrote,' … they gonna slaughter me."

Tuesday, September 4, 2018



My name is Julius. I'm 5-years-old. My dad died a few years ago. He got run over by a car. Last night someone from the Army came over. He told us that my brother got killed in some country. His face was blown off, he said, so we couldn't look at him. That made me sad, about his face being destroyed, probably because we looked alike, and now we don't anymore. I thought it was stupid for him to join the Army. I told him to play Army video games instead, but he wanted to fight in battles, he said, and couldn't do it on a computer screen.

So now I don't have a father or a brother. I have a mom and step-dad. My step-dad is nice, except for when he wants me to clean or take medicine. He told me to go to college instead of joining the military. He said, "Now you see your face can be blown to bits," and shook his head side to side. "But they won't let me look," I told him. "Yeah, good," he said. Then he went upstairs and cried. Sometimes at night he wakes me up because of his screaming. One of his feet had to be cut off during a war in Asia, and, when he dreams about it, he says it's like his foot is being amputated all over again.

Sample from Poems for Jennifer III

Much better than the previous sample from David C. McLean, as Jennifer S. Chesler points out, are these poems from his latest Poems for Jennifer III. Here it is on Amazon too.

things like resurrection

Freud said, marvelously: the death drive works in silence in the uproar of Eros.


we have never expected things like resurrection, the slow dive insecurity nipples we are memory wakeful, the esurient apple, the grotesque ghost slow & homeless. in me, Jennifer, is unsubtle answer we are burning. this is emo night, instead of poetry, here is thin skin a night on fire.

memory is pea protein a grotesque, cats made of the absurdity of words & the blood the skull. we have forgotten things like resurrection a memory is, we never knew what vinyl was absences.

under the god the great grotesque, you know it is you i carry like a wait inside me, here i am burning for you flesh & innocent we wear skin like an embarrassing omission like a silence a nighttime, it is only you & me make this relevant make memory skin & a murderer. night waits here for us to live it warm we lie together wrapped in expectation an anxious, your blood is time all of the loving.

mourning comes every corpse that means nothing the empty & the skeleton, fatuous Cadaver & ghost the homely; we have torture to wear it is exciting like night is & you are pinned under me writhing this nighttime i like to hit you & so do you, here is where the dead we are nipples & a slow suicide, nipples & all the rest of the night everywhere, cock is words.

here, Jennifer, i have loved you until time returns it is a dreadful imposition, a posit & a pointless, nipples & proper position, the appropriate optimist a corpse is murder & world there, Gus walks night an insolent cat all the gods forgotten the marauders maundering, nausea & the idiot American sentimental makes us want to vomit improbable makes us dust & monsters are hiding in closets forgotten there are gods within us where truth conceals itself to protect like pain & fingernails.

here is this one answer you, Jennifer, the smoke is rising timeless like there were battlefields here already, like there was resurrection, it is just us living again, happiness coincidental is breasts & the silence of knives; i love you, Jennifer, forever, & it is time.

there was cat

there was cat a night to becoming absence we are words on a table a face impossible & the cat walking his tiny pain implacable it was growing a body to fail the abject debility carried like a tail untold, a homeward. 

there is these things today it is not a project a prospectus just possible worlds & a little cat he is so fragile trotting through them to see what the best of them might be, being or not being stoic freedom;
it is not a better void to sleep in unreason just what there might be a burgeoning torture there & better not to touch nothing more, not to be being. Rex walks walls a slow mouse, a reflexive ritual listen. there is speech a sidewalk we are to answer apparent, here the cat is not much living left him to fall a kidney failure a lifetime is expenditure, a light like Fafner is flying his glowing wake over the sky night a memory a stretching in us to fiction or to forcing words to breathe again a meaning nothing to explain.
nor is this for this quieting cat he has nightmare to explicate for smaller beasts who do not remember the pathways to where being lives her clearing. the claw is suffering like the fang of a wolf the flesh is not hospitable the victim.
Rex tells me i woke at one a.m. i am changing water too early cleaning the obvious he says that here is cash the unsubtle answer brains here is not the biggest ever & everything really should be judged differentially & with extraordinary strictness some of us are better at things like thinking or deserving to exist. they do not do that here or elsewhere really except where there might be a tower on a mountain an ancient temple in a clearing in a forest where the mad goddess remembers Ethiopia she is gray as once was a memory a cocoon to fallout of happy is our madness & Rex said nothing matters much he had noticed we belong together & world one Clorox resurrection left yet, ants might live where sinks is & Rex felt he said that there was nothing to be different, nothing he needed to forget & love is not some sort of contract, it has no objection to finality to death – it is memory flesh, blood a claw a sort of temporary red.

frankly not happening

If there is a secret, it is this, its own: how does the impossible juxtaposition of intense singularities give way to the register, the recording? (Lyotard)

here it happens we are wrapped in flesh sexless, probably impossible bodies like bumble bees fighting lighttime, here we fall words a murder, a place we have written in. here, Jennifer, incessantly world.

how does the feeling i am poised over you pressing a weight into oblivion the burden borne to squash a night out of thighs timeless? satin staining a skin is blood & lips mistress my material, my matrix, memory is bitch a blood in us touch it my lips is your cunt a mouth a murderer stains & faceless, cunt & cum this coma is, listless is this little living, children, Jennifer victorious we tie us up in our skins outside us, nipples a sufficient love, bands above us bondage love us, time a maybe lover drugs.

it is not happening here patent this reverse, a letter written is, time a thing to live us in we have worlds a coil copious, perfect a referral drugged like memory a nipple mother a loveless i cum a time to touch us, look.

what we have forgotten nothing is constructed from hairy zero, not this exigency being is, nowhere is there a more originary zero world; the wait here is seed a paper sweaty semantics madness above us lover – memory their amphetamine highway maybe we are burning here, memory a world. i need you this meaning, Jennifer superior, i have forgotten it, medium idiot fishes is & inside you only meat a me a freedom, being & to be, memory a meaning a motherfucker here world where socks to fit us better forgotten, foggy a probable freedom maybe, world & the turning, it is freaks & their freedom blunt is an innocence to feed us, the dealer he is staring innocent wide an eye is his fridge he stands there a word - he means to empty the whole fucking thing.

here is this, bitch, cats & everything missing, the kids all dressed in tactical absences & everything is insistent as clitoris it is sister mistress we are nipples here live.

it is voluminous a body: "your cost will depend upon your utility rates & use" rating is a memory incredible here we are dancers are. "your cost will depend upon your utility rates & use" there is never this much room yet, love much forever, nothing here left us, lover, to forget, death forever, maybe sex.

Nobody Wants to Go to Heaven

Here's four poems from nobody wants to go to heaven but everybody wants to die by David C. McLean, released by Oneiros Books at this link. Here it is on Amazon too for a mere $10

for the children

the children need drugs and satanism
and new and sharper scissors to run with,
so that all the glass jumps to their feet
on each summer's running beaches;

they certainly do not need vocational
training or stupid psychologists
who know nothing, since they do not feel
anything themselves other than complacency

and bovine contentment. teachers
should be shot in the face as a general
and slightly brutal rule of thumb; the children
just need drugs so they can get shit done

the banality of goodness

Hindley and Brady would light cigarettes
like everybody else, wished their mothers dead
like everybody else does, petted small animals
or tortured them, or whatever.

they were very friendly, says Genesis P,
and i see no reason to disagree with him;
for mourning is a capricious torment,
and it was Hindley's mother in a photo

who supervised their murders.
there was a television too, apparently,
and special things, children. there was pain
in a squalid British house, nasty habits,

sweat and death, dust and devils
and absolutely no evidence
of resurrection. there were children –
they thought there were too many

children living, German wine and knives.
there was Myra's love for Ian, and an ax,
there was the banality of goodness
and the meaningless of life,

the poverty of time

Genet in Andalusia

i might have wanted to be Genet in Andalusia
in 1934, though i never saw love like a spun ray
of light fall between two friends, just the utility
they raped from each other, like the terrible black
prick with which Genet consoled his self,

his dusty identity shrugged over his humble
shoulders like an old man’s lonely coat.
i might have dreamed like him though men are nothing
to me, and the tattered flags he draped over them
are clumsy as the abandoned bodies of children

no souls ever lived in. but i admire his decisiveness –
the choice to isolate his tired heart in his young
nothing, to drag despite over him cozy
as a cloak. and love them as revenge
forever. his corruption he swam in

as a chosen lake of conspicuous innocence
and deviance. and the old hags wagging fingers,
he loved them and would have dribbled
his spit as absolution over his sluttish
mother. all the pussy he never pounded

though passion was possibly more violent
in the arms of some more ambitious
murderer. i can almost remember the beaches
and the long dead sailors, misery in their
fingers. they must have sung once, i suppose,

and between people all he could see was love
for decay smells sweeter in the next grave;
and the dusty young man unwholesome
under the wholesome Spanish hills –
his legacy remains 

another truth the dead know
(for Anne Sexton)

and what of them then? they need no blessing
but bless. stone lies long so lost and cold,
and their stone boats row better than our dinghy
against ingrown night. the dead are never old

but one day of love preserved in hopeful children's
vinegar. bone fingers groping for the muddy sky
under an absent wonderland where life might renew
its lease, lands where even fearless death may die.

we touch, we too, as you did, and so many men and women
you knew. their voices echo through your words
from the body's vicinity, bruised and complete and perfect
your lovers' voices whisper like the dead i always heard

earlier. and what of them? my dead generations
tardy time misplaced? their faceless stones
lie at the bottom of this lunar sea, dusty as me.
so i bless them again in their graves' cold homes.

unknown and so alone